Balance of Power

EIGHT

At one o'clock that afternoon, Fasano took a call from Charles Dane.

The media was in full cry, although not, thanks to Fasano's crisp directions, with the help of a single Republican senator. Nor, as of yet, had any Democrats save Hampton leapt to the President's defense. On CNN, a pro-life woman sparred with the president of a leading prochoice group, personifying the war of ideologies which, Fasano thought, would inevitably diminish the Kilcannons by virtue of its subject matter.

"It appears," Dane said blandly, "that God has smiled on us."

The irony held a pointed subtext—the deliberate intimation, in Fasano's view, of their mutual complicity. "Have you and God been in touch?" Fasano could not resist asking.

"No need, Frank. He speaks to me through the Reverend Christy. The Christian Commitment is going national with ads calling the Kilcannons morally unfit to lead us. Your political base hasn't been so galvanized since Kilcannon crammed Caroline Masters down their throats." Dane's tone became imperative. "They understand that overriding Kilcannon's veto is their first chance to strike while this is hot. Gun rights is now the issue which will break the little bastard for good and all."

Beneath this conversation, Fasano thought, was another: that Dane had set Kilcannon's downfall in motion; that Fasano's tacit knowledge made Dane the new proprietor of a corner of his soul; that—at least for this political moment—Fasano must carry out the SSA's directives. "My obligation is to win," Fasano parried, "not to schedule the quickest possible vote to override.

"On the final vote for passage, I carried our entire caucus except for Leo Weller. Kilcannon only had thirty-four votes—all Democrats. The votes you need may have to come from there. Before I schedule an override vote, I want to know that the votes are there."

"Vote," Dane snapped. "Singular. Weller's ripe for the picking—this scandal gives him cover for turning on Kilcannon, a distraction from his screwup on asbestos. Schedule the override and we'll make sure you win. All you need to do is keep Palmer and your fucking moderates in line, and get this done. Then the very next order of business will be defeating Kilcannon's gun bill."

Dane's insistence on haste made Fasano wonder again whether something about the Costello lawsuit concerned him or, now, whether Dane worried that this morning's scandal might in time be laid at his door. But there was objective sense in his demand. In the aftershock of Kilcannon's exposure, the political leverage belonged to Fasano, not Kilcannon, increasing the pressure on Fasano to deliver for the forces whose support he needed to become President himself. Dane had devised the perfect trap, pitting him against Kilcannon like two scorpions in a bottle.

"Deliver me Leo," Fasano told him, "and you'll get your instant vote."

* * *

It was nearly six before Cassie Rollins arrived at Fasano's office. Winter darkness had fallen, and the black rectangle of Fasano's window framed a distant, spotlit view of the Mall. Somehow Cassie knew that it was cold outside.

"Well?" Fasano inquired.

The monosyllable carried the reminder of her betrayal on gun immunity, an intimation that she must earn her way back into her leader's good graces or face banishment to some senatorial Siberia—or worse, the humiliation of a primary loss, the end to her career in politics.

"How are you going to play this?" was Cassie's blunt response. "We can't keep quiet forever."

Fasano shook his head. "My staff's preparing a statement. You can read it if you like."

"Give me the Cliff Notes."

"The A-words—adultery and abortion—never cross my lips. This problem is a lack of candor, and its real victim is the American people, including the next generation, who are losing trust in those who seek to lead them. As for me, I don't want to dwell on the President's personal life. I'm simply 'as disappointed as I expect the rest of the country is.' "

It was shrewd, Cassie thought. "No freelancing," Fasano continued, "from Paul or anyone. I'll expect all of you to 'echo the sentiments expressed by the Majority Leader' and then soberly proceed to override Kilcannon's veto, and send his gun bill to defeat. That should about do it for his Presidency."

Balling a fist, Cassie rested it beneath her chin. "Where do you suppose this story came from?"

Fasano shrugged. "The important thing is that nobody think that we played any part in it. That's why we all need to be as sober as an undertaker."

"That won't be hard for me," Cassie answered quietly. "I feel sorry for the Kilcannons—both of them. From what I can see, every conservative so-called journalist is swarming to Fox News to complain about Lara's ethics. But in my experience with her as a reporter she always played it completely straight. No one's ever claimed that she cut Kerry any breaks."

Fasano gave her a wintry smile. "Or Kilcannon's former wife."

"Believe me, Frank, I'm not going to be out defending their affair. But if a lifetime of marital fidelity were the test of fitness to serve in the Senate, there'd be only you and me left to turn out the lights. And that's only because I've never been married."

Fasano's smile compressed. "I don't love this, either. But we didn't make Kilcannon do it, and this is business. Where do you stand on his veto?"

"Where I stood before. I don't like gun immunity, but on balance I favor the final bill. So you've got my vote to override." Cassie gazed at him intently. "As for what's happening to the President, I don't like the feel of it. Not just because of the blackmail and whose interests it serves—a thought which, by the way, does not lead me to the Chamber of Commerce or their friends in the business community. It's that there are too many moving parts here, too much I don't know."

"And never will, I suspect. Nor will I."

Eyes narrowing, Cassie studied her nails. "There's something else," she said. "Lara exercised a right I happen to believe in, and now the President's being pilloried for it. My reading was that most of his statements in favor of choice were shot through with ambivalence." She looked up at Fasano. "Now I think I know why. If I had to guess, I'd say that Lara did it on her own, and that Kilcannon's refusing to say so."

"What?" Fasano said with incredulity. "You're suggesting that he wanted her to have a child and ruin his career? But that now he's too noble to say so? How many death wishes can someone that ambitious entertain?"

"You and I," Cassie responded, "have always disagreed about the nature of Kerry Kilcannon. I contend he has a soul—unlike many of our colleagues, I might add. That's why he and Chad always got along." Having delivered this veiled barb, Cassie changed subjects. "His motives aside, the President was clever about one thing. He got the story over with quickly—the press won't be trying to prove what he's already admitted. By tomorrow they'll be fixated on the identity of the blackmailer. Dollars to doughnuts it's someone who's a 'friend' of ours." She smiled briefly. "And Slezak's, Kilcannon seemed to imply. That would narrow the field a bit."

At once, Cassie saw this thrust strike home: Fasano's face became a mask, and his eyes froze on her face. He knows, she thought for a split second, and the instinct for self-preservation gripped her, the fear of standing too close to Fasano too soon. Then Fasano conjured a belated smile. "Why not just say what you mean, and get this off your chest."

It was a reminder that the subject was radioactive, and that a careless word, conveyed to the wrong person, could cost her a great deal. "I've said what I had to say," she answered.

Fasano's voice and manner changed abruptly. "Eleven days ago you crossed me on a leadership vote. The next one is on Kilcannon's gun bill. For you, I'd call it sudden death."

Cassie met his gaze. "Because the SSA will mount their primary challenge?" she inquired coolly. "So either they'll beat me there, or weaken me for a race against Abel Randolph. And you won't raise a finger, or a dime, to stop them."

"That's how it is."

"Not quite." Sitting back, Cassie drew a breath. "Believe me, Frank, I'm respectful of your position. But I'm less enamored of mine than I was when I woke up this morning. Tiptoeing through sewage does that to me.

"So you can tell the SSA to give me a little space. If you don't feel free to do that, then let them do their worst. Even if they disinter George Bolt and pump him full of embalming fluid, he won't beat me in a primary. And if that miracle occurs, there's no way on earth he'll defeat Abel Randolph in the general." Pausing, Cassie kept her voice more dispassionate than she felt. "That gives you two alternatives—a new Democratic senator who may threaten your majority, or one very disaffected female incumbent." Cassie smiled. "The last time our leadership fucked around with a Republican from New England, he left the party to become an independent. He seemed a whole lot happier than I feel right now."

Quiet, Fasano paused to appraise her sincerity. "Some people like being pariahs, Cassie. I don't sense that in you."

"Then give me a fit home, Frank. And the next time you want my vote, or anything from me, speak for yourself instead of for Charles Dane."